she had stained her yellow satin, upon which the Count again said "silence!" in his imperious voice, and silence again followed. I thought our host had chosen the music beforehand, for there was no pause in the programme. I'm not really musical or music would make me deaf and blind to other things, whereas it generally makes me acutely conscious of everything about me even at the height of enjoyment. And there is no joy comparable to that joy, even for such as me. It all comes back to me now—the stillness, the darkness, the murmur of water, the Count's face, intensely white, his grey eyes still and fixed, Marcelle's beautiful countenance and the hungry soul that looked out of it, drinking greedily of the eternal harmonies. I leant back, very still, in a luxury of enjoyment that was not without the young element of surprise. "After all," the music seemed to say, "this world is not always dull, work-a-day, matter of fact, and the men and women in it are in reality beautiful. This great earth can be very still, and music is the soul of it." At last the sleepy head of Jacques put itself in at the drawing-room door.
"Night prayers," said the Count rising.
"Oh, dear!" said Marcelle, "must there always be prayers?"
George Sutcliffe came out on the terrace. "Don't let her go to prayers," he said, looking at me.
"I don't want her to go, I don't want to go myself," said Marcelle. She threw back her head and clasped her hands behind it as she spoke. "Ah, the stars!" with a deep sigh of enjoyment; "but," she muttered in a low voice, "it is mean not to say 'thank you,'" and quickly followed her brother indoors.
My eyes met Mr. Sutcliffe's, and we half-consciously told each other how beautiful she had looked at that moment.
"But you should hear her sing," he said, "only she won't do it when her brother is here."
"But why not?"
